Disappearing and reappearing. That was the theme of last year. One minute I'd disappear, the next I'd feel ready to face the world again, only to discover that each time I ventured outside my then-tiny comfort zone, the protective layer I'd shed simply uncovered other issues.
I got used to it. Each time a layer came off, I'd wrap myself up and venture out for as long as I could. The first time it happened I was caught off guard. I walked out of a lecture with tears running down my face. Embarrassment mixed with fear mixed with the memory of absolute terror: it's an odd mix. After that, I retreated back into my little cocoon fairly quickly (so, sorry to all those people who fell by the wayside last year, it really wasn't you, it was me!).
However, like running and baking, there's something cathartic about tears. For me, tears didn't make me feel better but it was a sign that whatever I was ready to deal with whatever I had been bottling up at the time - even when I didn't know I was doing this. It was tiring though. Tiring to think everything was fine only to have something out of the blue happen and throw me. Tiring to be on edge wondering what else I hadn't faced. Tiring because I felt life was passing me by and I wasn't able to live it. Tiring because I felt guilty a lot of the time about how I felt.
This beautiful tea set was part of my life for the past year. I packed it away, but would look at it every other day. I would tell myself I was afraid to use it in case it would break. It's one of the most beautiful and valuable things I own. Financially, it's probably got very little value, but what it means to me is beyond my powers of description. What the people who gave it to me did for me, is a debt I can never repay. And that's the real reason why it was packed away, something this beautiful needs to be shared. It's a tea set for six. But sharing tea in this set would have also meant sharing what it means to me. And I wasn't ready to do that. But to the people who gave this to me, one day I hope we can sit down together and share some tea in these beautiful cups. And thank you for making sure I never disappeared and never lost hope.
I got used to it. Each time a layer came off, I'd wrap myself up and venture out for as long as I could. The first time it happened I was caught off guard. I walked out of a lecture with tears running down my face. Embarrassment mixed with fear mixed with the memory of absolute terror: it's an odd mix. After that, I retreated back into my little cocoon fairly quickly (so, sorry to all those people who fell by the wayside last year, it really wasn't you, it was me!).
However, like running and baking, there's something cathartic about tears. For me, tears didn't make me feel better but it was a sign that whatever I was ready to deal with whatever I had been bottling up at the time - even when I didn't know I was doing this. It was tiring though. Tiring to think everything was fine only to have something out of the blue happen and throw me. Tiring to be on edge wondering what else I hadn't faced. Tiring because I felt life was passing me by and I wasn't able to live it. Tiring because I felt guilty a lot of the time about how I felt.
This beautiful tea set was part of my life for the past year. I packed it away, but would look at it every other day. I would tell myself I was afraid to use it in case it would break. It's one of the most beautiful and valuable things I own. Financially, it's probably got very little value, but what it means to me is beyond my powers of description. What the people who gave it to me did for me, is a debt I can never repay. And that's the real reason why it was packed away, something this beautiful needs to be shared. It's a tea set for six. But sharing tea in this set would have also meant sharing what it means to me. And I wasn't ready to do that. But to the people who gave this to me, one day I hope we can sit down together and share some tea in these beautiful cups. And thank you for making sure I never disappeared and never lost hope.
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